


wild is the wind

by mstigergun



Series: Inglorious [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Feelings, M/M, The Herald's Rest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5004538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mstigergun/pseuds/mstigergun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonid knows what he wants, but he has a hard time saying it. Which is why the bourbon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wild is the wind

**wild is the wind**

*

Leonid has to drink a great deal of bourbon rather quickly before he can make himself say it. But drink his requisite alcohol he does because he _has_ to: he’s entirely run through his other options and is thus left with _this,_ miserable though the thought of the impending conversation leaves him. He manages to stumble his way up the stairs in the tavern and toward the table where Basten’s sitting with a selection of loud-mouthed and wretchedly tall Qunari from his company.

He knew they were there from the moment he entered the tavern. Few other groups can match them for noise. All the same, though, seeing those familiar broad shoulders, the flash of a smile across the crowded tavern –

It gives a name to the hunger he has been entirely unable to satisfy. Worse than starving in the fucking Hinterlands, because here he is surrounded by _options,_ and yet he’s limited to –

This. To _Basten,_ because apparently no one else will suffice.

Which is why the bourbon.

Leonid sighs, hand lingering for a moment on the worn railing. But ever onwards, he thinks. He’s had to have many a conversation significantly more humiliating, and will no doubt sink again to such depths many a time in the future yet ahead of him. It’s his lot in life, Leonid thinks, to be occasionally horrified at the words that must, out of necessity, drop from his mouth. And at least this time he’s well insulated by a haze of liquor.

He picks his way past the little knots of drinkers and revellers, shouldering by one group singing an off-key and half-Orlesian version of one of Maryden’s jauntier tunes. Finally, he rounds the corner and approaches the table where sits the object of his attentions.

As he pushes his way closer, Basten’s stare falls on him. Even across the crowded space, Leonid can make out the blue of his eyes, his _damnable_ freckles. The shadows that gather beneath his jaw.

Something beneath his breastbone throbs, and Leonid hates himself for it.

Raset, who’s sitting with her back to Leonid’s approach, must sense him, because she pivots in her seat and twists to shoot him a crooked grin. “Well, look who’s joining us,” she purrs, tapping her hand against the back of an empty seat.

He ignores her. “Basten,” Leonid says, swaying only slightly as he stands at the end of the table, fixing Basten with what Leonid hopes is a _very serious_ stare that demands he do precisely as Leonid says. “I need to speak with you.”

Salat, sitting next to Basten, snorts into his tankard. Raset’s smile grows sharp as the edge of her blade. _“Speak,”_ she repeats. “The spitfire wants to _speak_ with you, Bastion.”

Irritation flashes up the back of his neck, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “Raset,” begins Basten –

Not that he needs to intervene, not on Leonid’s behalf.

Leonid rolls his eyes. “At least _at first_ ,” he says. “Why, are you _terribly jealous,_ Raset? How upset Sera would be after she thinks she’s won herself such a prize. You _shine_ nearly as prettily as any of her baubles.” He reaches out and flicks the tip of one horn, the metal casing making a small ringing sound – like coins dropped against a table top.

A delighted laugh flies free from Raset’s mouth, her eyebrows shooting up. “Maker keep me,” she cries, swatting Leonid’s hand away. “No. Not jealous on either front. Go on, then,” with a wave at Basten. “Leonid wants to _speak with you_ , after all.”

Leonid turns on his heel as best as he can when his sense of perfect balance has so utterly deserted him and left him _this_ sort of unsteady, walking pointedly to the stairs that wend their way up to the third level. He doesn’t bother to check if Basten’s following, because of _course_ he is. He does, however, check to see that Cole’s cleared out – Leonid hardly needs _that_ sort of intervention – and then turns.

Basten stops just to the left of the stairs, leaning against a support beam, his stare thoughtful and gleaming with an unspoken curiosity.

Of course he’s used to Leonid finding him and insisting he _follow_ with nary an explanation. It’s just – usually that’s for one thing, and this is for another. Though they aren’t, Leonid thinks, unrelated.

He narrows his eyes. “So,” says Leonid, pacing closer and jabbing a finger at Basten’s chest. “You’ve ruined me for other men.”

Basten stares down at him. “I’ve – _what?”_

Leonid folds his arms, scowling. “You’ve _ruined me_ ,” he repeats, a ridiculous _breathlessness_ hovering at the edge of his voice. “Maker knows I’ve tried, Basten. I had three soldiers this past week – they were horrible. I tried a couple mages because I thought it might be a _magic_ thing. No good either. I’ve already _had_ other Qunari, so I know it’s not that. Andraste preserve and protect me, I even stooped so low as to fuck a noble, but he wouldn’t leave my bed for _ages_ and was _rubbish_ to boot. Didn’t he _whine,_ Orlesian as he was, which would have been a great deal funnier if he weren’t _inside of me_ at the time. No, it would appear that you’ve made it impossible for me to have anyone else, and so I’m discarding the rules.”

Basten is perfectly still, there in the quiet top level, which is dim after the burning candles and crackling fires of downstairs. The sounds from below still travel up – the distant plucking of strings, the roar of laughter – but are muffled against the rafters overhead.

They seem very little indeed compared to the beating of Leonid’s pulse in his ears. Though why he should be so _nervous_ –

“You love your rules,” Basten says, words slow. Nearly _wary._ “Even,” he adds, with a faltering smile, “if you don’t always keep to them.”

“Yes, yes,” says Leonid, waving a hand in the air between them. “The only thing I love more than my rules is _breaking them_. Understand, I am a simple man –”

Basten clears his throat.

“I am a man of _simple pleasures_ ,” Leonid amends, with a flickering smile. “I like drinking and fucking. We’re saving the blighted world; I deserve that much. Already, I’m subjected to mediocre drink. I simply cannot tolerate mediocre fucking as well. It’s too much – or, rather, I suppose the point is that it’s not _nearly enough_ and, believe me, no amount of verbal encouragement seems able to cure that.”

Basten’s eyes narrow slightly, as though he’s confused. Still, he leans against the broad beam. “So you want to start up again. _Again_ again. Without the irritability afterwards and the insistence that _once doesn’t count as breaking the rules_.”

Leonid nods, jerkier than he means to. “Just the sex,” he explains. “And the friendship is, I suppose, an acceptable addition.”

“Do you have rules about friendship as well?” Basten asks mildly.

“Only that you never ask _inane questions like that_ ,” Leonid says, glaring. But even he can feel that all the venom’s gone out of the expression. In its place, something stupidly soft and perhaps even slightly concerned – he feels _that_ in the crease forming between his eyebrows. Because it hasn’t escaped Leonid that Basten has yet to _agree._

“I think I get to ask inane questions,” Basten says. He tilts his head, almost as though he’s observing a curious little spell he wishes to pick apart. “Since I’ve ruined other men for you.”

An uncomfortable heat flares to life at the base of Leonid’s neck. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he snaps, exposed though he is up here in this dim and empty space, under that watchful look. “It’s just – It has nothing to do with _you.”_

“I think it does,” Basten says drily, smile crooked. And infuriatingly _charming._

“No,” Leonid insists. “It’s because – I’m _used to you_. And you understand how I like to fuck, and you don’t need me to hold your hand through it or find you something to wipe your _tears_ away with.”

Basten laughs, then, and for a moment Leonid can breathe. “You didn’t make someone _cry,_ Leonid,” he says, leaning a little closer. “It was that bad?”

Leonid sniffs, shrugging. He traces a circle on the dusty floorboard with the toe of one boot, looking down. “I wasn’t that bad. He just – oh, you know. _It’s been so long since someone held me_ , he wept. _Well, it will be longer still. Out of my bed_ , I said. _Leonid, you don’t mean that_ , he said. _Of course I do_ , I said, _Now fuck off_.”

It’s a slight exaggeration, of course, though there _were_ tears. Though they did have to do with _being held._ Leonid was just… slightly more diplomatic in seeing the man from his quarters, as he didn’t want a mage in charge of _healing_ to be exceedingly cross with him. It was a decision borne out of pragmatism rather than – _kindness_ or _compassion_ or whatever else a person who’d observed the entire interaction might suppose. Instead of telling the man to pull his robe back on and himself back together, Leonid had insisted, in a wounded tone he hadn’t had cause to adopt in many years, that his heart belonged to another. That he would still always cherish the memory of –

Even thinking it again leaves a foul taste in his mouth. Maker, bad enough that the man had been a horrible lay, that he hadn’t done a _thing_ to scratch the itch prickling beneath Leonid’s skin. Worse still that Leonid had been forced to pretend at – emotional _honesty._

Vile.

“And in any case,” Leonid continues, pushing pointedly past the thought, “it’s really just because you have a perfect mouth.”

Basten’s eyebrows inch higher in the half-light.

“And,” Leonid adds, before the distant echo of his insistence that he _never say too many nice things at once_ catches up to him through the haze of bourbon, “an even greater cock. I can be honest about that much.”

Basten’s grin is immediate, crooked and delighted. “Even better than _perfect.”_

“For fuck’s sake,” hisses Leonid, cheeks burning as if he’s too near a fire. “You _know what I mean_.”

“What you mean,” says Basten, “is that you miss having sex with me. Sure. But you’ve been drinking and –”

Leonid scoffs. “Of course I’ve been drinking. You don’t think I’d come _begging_ without a healthy dose of –”

“This isn’t begging,” says Basten. Firm. A crease appears between his eyebrows.

Leonid’s stomach squirms beneath his skin, fingers curling up against his palms, unbidden. A reflex, like he’s readying himself for a fight. When he speaks, his words are almost breathless. “Did you want me to? Because that is where I’d draw the line. If you don’t want to go back to the way things were, we can just – continue not having sex.” A pause, then, “Or trying to not have sex, in any case.”

Because if Basten isn’t – If he doesn’t want –

Basten sighs, a short and sharp sound. “Of course I don’t want you to _beg,_ Leonid. I’m just –”

He stops. Shifts his weight away from the beam, arms crossing – which is the most uneasy Leonid thinks he’s ever seen Basten look. Something dark and unsettled coils in on itself in Leonid’s gut. He looks away, glancing at a distant and dark corner where cobwebs gather around forgotten barrels of Maker knows what.

This is it, Leonid thinks. He’s waited too long and –

_Maker,_ what _is_ he even doing?

Another sigh, this one softer. “I don’t want you to say _yes_ now only to put the rules back in place tomorrow,” Basten says after a long pause. “I don’t want to be dragged into a hallway one moment, and then told not to even look your way the next.”

“I’m not –” he starts. “This isn’t – ”

He breaks it off. Sucks on the inside of his cheek. His throat is tight, a constriction even the echo of bourbon can’t loosen. Beneath his ribs, his heart has become a long, unending ache.

Basten is right to be concerned, Leonid thinks. Of course he is. Leonid had told him he deserved better than _mean,_ and Leonid is –

Cruel. Unfailingly.

But perhaps he can learn to be kind, in this at least. In some small measure. He can certainly manage _clear._

“They’re gone,” Leonid says plainly, looking up at Basten, holding his stare with an unwavering and entirely uncharacteristic solemnity. In this, he can at least use his bluntness to maximum effect. “The _rules._ Against my better judgment, perhaps, but then _judgment_ and _prudence_ have never been things I’ve boasted as chief among my virtues or skills.”

Still, a concerned line rests between Basten’s eyebrows, his arms folded across his broad chest. Which, Leonid knows, is perfectly formed – warm and smooth, except for the knotted scar on his shoulder where Leonid’s arrow found home. A mark Leonid’s already left on him.

Clarity, he thinks, and something like – _openness._

Leonid sighs and rubs a hand against his forehead for a moment. “I’m not just _deciding_ this because I’ve come to the conclusion in the past hour that I’m lonely,” Leonid says finally. “I’ve – The rules only exist in the first place to keep me from being in this situation, but here I am all the same. And so they’ve become rather useless, haven’t they? And,” with his most charming smile, “as I said, you have apparently ruined me for other men. So. My options would appear to be _you,_ Basten, or a great deal more drink.”

“Well,” says Basten. “When you put it like that.” All the same, though, his lips curl into a smile – not quite as easy as the ones Leonid’s used to seeing shape his features, but nearly as bright. His arms fall back to his side, shoulder once again leaning against the dark beam behind him.

Something that’s been tangled deep in Leonid’s heart loosens, and he huffs out a little, unsteady laugh. “I’ve complimented you enough for one evening on your various carnal _virtues,”_ Leonid says, trying to sound annoyed but – instead his words come out warm. Almost affectionate, horrifying though the idea is. “And clearly it’s gone straight to your head.”

The grin sharpens. “I don’t think it’s _my_ head that it’s gone to.”

Another laugh, brighter, and one he can’t tamp down. “Shut up.” Leonid’s hand flashes out, catching the front of Basten’s shirt, fingers tangling in the soft fabric. He stares up at Basten, whose mouth is curved into a delighted smile, shadows cutting his face in stark relief – like he’s a portrait who’s been rendered from ink, carved from the very substance of the night itself.

Leonid has enough good sense to be disgusted with himself for thinking it, but not nearly enough to smother the dazed smile he feels shaping his own mouth. “Maker,” Leonid breathes, “but you _are_ wretched.”

Basten huffs. One of his broad hands finds Leonid’s hip, the place where his tunic and vest meet his belt. “You say that,” Basten says, voice low – intimate, almost, with the din below fading to but a distant echo, “but you don’t mean it.”

_Clarity,_ Leonid thinks, and perhaps _honesty._ An attempt at being even slightly less cruel.

He doesn’t deserve mean, Basten. He deserves much, much better. And the least Leonid can do is try now and again.

Leonid’s stare slides away, past the shape of Basten’s arm and toward the shadow gathering against the boards of the wall. “No,” he murmurs, heat ghosting the inside of his skin. “Of course I don’t _mean_ it.” When he looks back, he’s certain that Basten must be able to see the flush across his cheeks.

All the same, Basten’s smile softens. He leans closer, body a line of warmth in the dim space upstairs. Leonid’s pulse picks up, heart fluttering against his ribs – as simple as that.

_This,_ he thinks distantly, is the hunger he’s been unable to burn from his bones. That he hasn’t been able to sate in any other way – one that hounds him like those long, cold weeks in the Hinterlands. That a man should be able to do this to him, take him _here_ –

Basten’s brow creases again, though it’s with a concern far more distant than the earlier expression. “How much have you had to drink?”

He is entirely too virtuous, and Leonid would be disgusted were he not –

Whatever this is instead.

“Not _too_ much,” Leonid says. “Enough that I could talk about –”

He can taste the next word on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t say it.

“Sex,” Basten offers, though his eyes – cast a cobalt, almost, in this semi-dark – glitter with something far too… _insightful_ to ever be comfortable.

As if Leonid’s ever needed alcohol to talk about fucking.

Rather, it’s the – _rest_ of it that’s demanded the bourbon. None of which he wants to be thinking of now.

“In any case,” Leonid concludes, forcibly pushing past the thoughts he refuses to allow to clarify in his mind, “not nearly enough for you to feel that you’re taking _advantage._ Though if you’d like to head back downstairs and have another drink –”

With a shake of his head, Basten moves in closer. The hand resting on Leonid’s hip, fingers sliding beneath the edge of Leonid’s tunic and brushing his skin, tugs him closer – though he needn’t, because Leonid’s already shifting his weight, drawn inexorably to Basten. Never nearly close though. Another heartbeat, and Basten has slid his other hand to the line of Leonid’s jaw, his skin a warm and familiar weight that makes something burn iridescent within Leonid’s veins. “I’d rather be here,” he murmurs.

“Good,” breathes Leonid. He pushes himself up and catches Basten’s mouth with his own – and, at once, the lingering chill burns itself from beneath his skin, leaving only this: heat and endless brightness and the pleased sound that escapes both of their throats. Finally, Leonid can breathe, and maybe also be something _better_ this time around.

 

 


End file.
